


i'll open the doors (i'll send everyone away)

by c0rpz3huzb4nd



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dimension Travel, Gen, How Do I Tag This, I FORGOT THE SUMMARY, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), no beta we die like jack kanoff, tags will be updated i guess?, title from discoteque by molchat doma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29761770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c0rpz3huzb4nd/pseuds/c0rpz3huzb4nd
Summary: The front door swings open soundlessly, and Wilbur steps inside, shutting it behind him. The house is eerily quiet, and Wilbur is feeling more and more like the person who dies first in a horror movie.He pauses, then decides to embrace his role as kill-fodder, calling Tommy’s name into the empty house. He doesn’t get a verbal response, but there’s shuffling upstairs, and footsteps quickly coming down them.“Sorry, big man! I didn’t hear you come in, you know how my hearing’s been since the festival-” Tommy cuts himself off as he slides to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, eyes blowing wide as he stares Wilbur down, and the brunette feels like he’s doing about the same.The Tommy in front of him is not the one he knows.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 31
Kudos: 164





	i'll open the doors (i'll send everyone away)

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS SO 2014 WATTPAD PLOT BUT IT WOULD NOT LEAVE MY BRAIN

Tommy wakes up on a bed that is not his own. The mattress beneath him is far too soft, and the blanket haphazardly tangled in his legs is too cushy and warm. He can hear the sound of the ocean, but it’s tinny and closer to his head than usual, like it’s coming from a nearby speaker. Slowly, he cracks open his eyes, and immediately launches himself upright, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he frantically scans his surroundings.

  
  


Instead of the familiar white walls of his tent, he’s in a decently sized bedroom, the walls plastered with posters of things he doesn’t know anything about, floor covered with soft carpet. He’s not wearing the clothes he went to sleep in, instead he’s wearing a hoodie that’s several sizes too big, and a pair of sweatpants that are softer than anything he’s ever owned. He turns in a slow circle. He knows better than to look for his weapons, Dream had destroyed them yesterday before he left, along with the rest of Tommy’s things. 

  
  


There’s a door sitting slightly ajar, and Tommy edges towards it, keeping his footsteps quiet, silently thanking Ender for the carpeted floor which keeps him almost silent as he moves. Slowly, he creeps down the stairs that sit just outside the door, stopping periodically to scan his surroundings, paranoia tinging his gaze.

  
  


Nothing. There’s no one in sight, and his hearing, attuned to every little noise after years of living in fear, picks up no movements other than him. Once he’s almost positive there’s no one else in the house with him, he makes his way downstairs, emerging into what looks like a small kitchen. There’s a note on the fridge, and he pads over to read it.

  
  


_Hey, Tom. You slept in and me and your mum didn’t want to wake you, so we left. Like we said, we’ll be back from your grandmother’s in two weeks. Remember to eat and buy groceries if you need to, try and be healthy. You have our numbers, and if anything goes bad and you need and adult to be there with you, call Wilbur, he’ll drive over and stay with you while he calls us._

  
  


_Love you! - Dad :)_

  
  


Tommy ignores the rush of shock the note brings him, deciding instead to focus on the latter half. Wilbur. He can call Wilbur. Wilbur is _alive_. Wilbur is alive, these people who are pretending to be his parents have essentially left him in Wilbur’s care. 

  
  


He has to find a communicator. Tommy doesn’t have to check where his own usual sits at his hip to know it’s not there. There had been a device upstairs next to the bed he had woken up in, maybe that was his? He rummages through the fridge first, deciding on an apple, something safe and familiar, before retreating back to the room that’s presumably his.

  
  


Sure enough, the small device opens when he presses the button at the bottom, revealing a screen filled with various buttons, most of which he has _no_ clue as to what function they serve. Mercifully, he manages to press the one that leads him to a list of contacts, although the way they’re stored is much fancier than the simple name and string of numbers he’s used to in his old communicator. He scrolls through the surprisingly long list until he lights on one labelled “Wilbur”. He clicks on it, and the device lights up. Tommy fumbles to press it to his ear, barely daring to breathe as the line rings.

  
  


_Click_.

  
  


“...Tommy? It’s, like, nine in the morning, bud. Everything alright?” Tommy can’t hold back the sob that bubbles unbidden out of him, because this is _Wilbur_ , he’s _alive_. There’s sharp rustling on the other end, like Wilbur’s flinging himself out of bed.

  
  


“Tommy, are you okay? Are you safe? Are you hurt?” Tommy sniffles sharply, unable to stop the tears now that they’ve started. Wilbur still sounds concerned, though, so he pushes through enough to speak.

  
  


“Y-yeah, I’m fine, Wil. You- you’re _alive_.” Wilbur pauses, and his voice is softer when he speaks again.

  
  


“Oh, Tommy. Did you have a nightmare?” Tommy doesn’t even get a chance to rebuke the statement, to insist that Wilbur’s death was _very_ much real, because Wilbur steamrolls on.

  
  


“No, Toms, I’m right here, mkay? I’m alive, and I’m okay, promise.” Tommy hums, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

  
  


“Do you want me to stop by later? We can stream, or just hang out for a bit, maybe get some lunch.” Tommy nods, before remembering that Wilbur can’t see him.

  
  


“Yeah. Yes, please. Haven’t seen you in… a long time. It’d be nice.” Wilbur hums on the other end of the line, and Tommy can hear more rustling.

  
  


“Okay! It’s a bit of a drive, I’ll be over around noon, ‘kay? Try and take a shower and eat something. I’ll grab that sweater you accidentally left at mine last time you stopped by, since you keep bugging me about it.” Tommy makes a noncommittal noise, and the line goes dead.

  
  


Okay. A few hours, then he can see Wilbur again. He can make it a few hours.

  
  


-

  
  


Wilbur has the sinking feeling that _something_ is wrong. He can’t quite place it, the nervous feeling that curls in his gut, humming in the back of his throat like a song. His fingers drum on the wheel, and he sighs stiffly as he nears Tommy’s house. The radio is on, but it’s tuned to static, the soft crackle at least slightly calming him down, soothing his racing thoughts. 

  
  


The feeling only increases when he knocks on the door, and Tommy doesn’t answer. He waits a minute, just to make sure the teen hadn’t been on the other side of the house, but there’s no pounding footsteps, no loud voice imploring him to wait. He knocks again, and _again_ , before eventually giving up on that approach, instead retrieving the spare key from where he knows it sits under a planter on Tommy’s front porch.

  
  


The front door swings open soundlessly, and Wilbur steps inside, shutting it behind him. The house is eerily quiet, and Wilbur is feeling more and more like the person who dies first in a horror movie.

  
  


He pauses, then decides to embrace his role as kill-fodder, calling Tommy’s name into the empty house. He doesn’t get a verbal response, but there’s shuffling upstairs, and footsteps quickly coming down them.

  
  


“Sorry, big man! I didn’t hear you come in, you know how my hearing’s been since the festival-” Tommy cuts himself off as he slides to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, eyes blowing wide as he stares Wilbur down, and the brunette feels like he’s doing about the same.

  
  


The Tommy in front of him is not the one he knows. This Tommy is lean and muscular, all sharp edges and arms toned from what’s obviously years of constantly being active, on the move. He’s _covered_ in scars, some of them much bigger than others. The most noticeable ones are a long gash across his neck, and what looks like a burn scar on his face, as well as several good sized ones on his arms. 

  
  


“What the fuck!?” They speak in tandem, unable to get any other words out as they stare each other in the eyes, seemingly frozen in place.

**Author's Note:**

> comments n kudos fuel my soul


End file.
